


blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

by aubades



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, M/M, alyosha gets off to erotic poetry because honestly who doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12403332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubades/pseuds/aubades
Summary: Alyosha can practically taste the silence as it hangs in the air of the study, prolonged and full. It's similar to how he imagines Arrell can taste the blood running through Alyosha's veins even before he takes a bite to devour what lies underneath. Arrell's never spoken about what it's like to thirst, but Alyosha wonders what that pressing lull to feed would feel like, as completely clouds the senses - whether it's more of a headache, or an enticing allure. Alyosha knows he's dancing a little close to the edge of Arrell's patience, that Arrell must know he's teasing him, but Alyosha feels just as dedicated to the task of drawing Arrell away from his work as he does the study of his religious texts.





	blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> Happy month of Halloween! Also it's still Fucktober!! I wanted to write something with a vampire (the bitey kind though, sorry Throndir & Claret) so here ya go.

The quiet snowfall of winter has fully grown into a storm by the time Alyosha makes his way up the snow-covered steps to Arrell's home. The howling wind bites at the edges of his cloak and he clutches it tight around his face, grimacing against the cold. He's thankful he'd remembered his gloves, despite that at this moment, the leather seems to do little to warm his skin.

As he walks, tracing the familiar pattern of footsteps up to the front of the house, Alyosha's breath hovers in front of his face in small puffs. When he reaches the front door, he glances up into the night sky, wrinkling his nose at the barrage of snowflakes that fall onto his cheeks.

It doesn't take long to find the key in his pocket and soon the front door swings open with a loud creak that echoes deep into the house. Arrell keeps the main level of his home relatively bare, almost desolate, but Alyosha knows this is more out of lack of care than personal taste. Arrell's library and study, on the other hand, display all the kinds of wonders more on par with Arrell's interests, containing everything from intricate magical artifacts to fading religious portraits to yellowed historical texts.

As Alyosha closes the door behind him, shaking the snow off his cloak, he sighs when he realizes the inside of the house is almost just as cold as the storm. Sometimes he wonders if Arrell likes to play up to the stereotypes that come with being a vampire, with the old oak furniture smothered in cobwebs, the dusty halls of a dark mansion, and mirrors covered with white sheets.

Alyosha imagines Arrell's indignant face at even the slightest suggestion that he cares remotely about his image, about what he is, and chuckles to himself in the hallway of the quiet manor. There is nothing but the sound of the roof creaking against the weight of the storm in response.

Although it's Arrell's home, they have an unspoken agreement that Alyosha is free to come and go as he pleases, which he does - especially when, like now, it's been several weeks since anyone has seen or heard from Arrell. Alyosha knows he tends to get wrapped up in his studies, his desires to unravel the mysteries of the world, but after the first week slipped past without even a whisper from the man, Alyosha began to worry. After the second week, he had made up his mind to investigate.

Not only to investigate, though. Alyosha bites at his bottom lip and thumbs the book of poetry inside of his bag.

He shivers as he walks up the stairs to the study. Alyosha thinks he had seen the pale flickering light of a candle in the large upstairs window as he entered the house, but it had been difficult to see through the snow. Either way, Arrell knows he's here by now, as the soft padding of his footsteps trail toward the top floor of the house.

When Alyosha reaches the study door, he raises a cold, still-gloved hand to knock, but before his knuckles make contact with the wood, he hears Arrell's voice call out.

"Come in, Alyosha," says Arrell.

Despite himself, Alyosha smiles before pushing open the door.

As expected, inside of the study sits Arrell at his desk, surrounded by overflowing piles of books and papers. He's scribbling at a bit of parchment, back turned to Alyosha, but Alyosha can picture his face well as he works, squinting in concentration, eyes burning with determination.

The silence stretches out between them for a few moments as Alyosha shuffles into the room, dropping his cloak and gloves onto the lounge chair by the fireplace. It's only when his teeth begin to chatter that Arrell pauses his writing and sits upright in his own chair, but he doesn't turn to look at the younger man.

"You're cold," Arrell states in lieu of a question, and with a wave of his hand, a flame erupts inside of the fireplace. He returns to his notes.

Alyosha waits until the embers crackle and feeling returns to his fingertips before he fully relaxes in his seat, facing away from Arrell and staring deep into the fire. He waits until he knows he can speak without his voice wavering - be it from the cold in the room, the slight irritation he feels toward Arrell, or the anticipation at what he's about to try to do.

"It's been two weeks," Alyosha says softly, pulling the book of poetry out of his bag and placing it into his lap. "I thought you might at least take the time to write."

"I've been busy," Arrell replies thickly. Alyosha doesn't miss the hoarseness in his grumbling, revealing how weak Arrell must be if he's allowing any strain in his voice to be heard. Alyosha knows its been much longer than Arrell is normally comfortable with since the last time he fed.

Alyosha knows Arrell can hear his heartbeat loud and thundering on the days when he thirsts, when Alyosha will offer his blood. Arrell often refuses, but sometimes his eyes will darken, and Alyosha will tremble as he presses his mouth to Alyosha's pale neck.

He wonders if now, when the vampire must desperately crave even the tiniest drop of blood, Arrell can taste the flush in Alyosha's cheeks from across the room.

The exarch hums. "Well." The spine of his book snaps as he opens it, blending in with the noises of the fire. "You won't mind if I keep you company, will you?"

Arrell grunts in response and says nothing more. Alyosha smiles again, covering it with the pages of his book, despite that Arrell can't see him, before he begins to read.

Alyosha knows better than to try to pull Arrell away from his work with mere words. Arrell loves to argue for the sake of it, perhaps even for the rhythm of it, but he never argues to be convinced. So, Alyosha will have to use other methods.

The magic of the fire casts heat throughout the room quickly. Soon, Alyosha feels sweat trickling down his brow, but he remains in his seat. Instead, he pulls his nightgown out of his bag and begins to slowly shrug out of his clothes, changing into his sleepwear - a bit petulantly, as he fully intends to spend the night with Arrell one way or another.

When the air hits his naked chest, Alyosha can't help the sigh that flutters from his lips at the feeling. He hears Arrell stab his manuscript a bit harder than necessary with his pen, yet Arrell still says nothing. Alyosha resists the urge to laugh.

More comfortable now in his nightgown, Alyosha fully stretches out across the love seat, dangling his feet over the arm. He lets himself read through one of the poems, tracing his fingers over the words like he always does, before he leans his head back against seat cushion, staring up at the dark ceiling.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm reading, Tutor?" Alyosha asks finally, as he leans the open book against his chest with one hand, tugging up the bottom of his nightgown with the other.

Arrell takes too long to reply, and by the time Alyosha hears the man begin to speak, Alyosha is running his hand across his underwear, down the length of his cock. He bites his lip to keep from sighing again, shifting his hips to allow his hand better access as he rubs the beginnings of an erection.

There's a definite choke in Arrell's voice as he replies, "Do tell, Pupil."

"It's a collection of old sonnets," Alyosha replies nonchalantly, hiding the grin on his face, the groan threatening to break free from his throat. "The author is unknown, but the church thinks the book is pre-Erasure."

"And you..." Arrell trails off and Alyosha hears his feeble attempts at continuing his note-taking, the slide of pen across parchment, before Arrell gives up and sets it down on his desk. "You're...what kind of-"

"Oh, it's love poetry," Alyosha explains, cutting Arrell off. He slips a hand underneath his underwear, hooking his fingers around his cock, and a whine finally escapes from his lips. Arrell's chair scrapes across the floor, the sound like a gunshot in the silence of the study.

"There's one in particular, T-Tutor," Alyosha stumbles over the words as he holds the book back up with a hand, raising his hips slightly in the air. "I thought I might read it to you and you would, ah, tell me what you thought."

Arrell is silent, so Alyosha continues, reading the poem out loud with a shaky breath.

_I walk the cold shores of your shoulder blades;_  
_Trace sand like I did your skin with my tongue._  
_I feel my soul bound to yours come unmade;_  
_As I remember our stories unsung._

Alyosha manages to keep his voice steady for the most part, as he strokes himself lazily while he speaks.

_The days when you sighed new life into me;_  
_With each new kiss and sweet bite on my skin;_  
_Just like a darling plum plucked from a tree;_  
_You licked up my sweetness like a soft hymn._

Alyosha is so hard now, shaking and straining against his underwear. It's become harder to speak, but he keeps talking, knowing that Arrell can surely smell the blood that's rushing in his ears.

_I shake from just the whisper of my name._  
_With the roll of your hips like ocean waves;_  
_You map new lands, pieces of me to claim;_  
_Leaving me with your open mouth to crave._

Just for a brief moment, Alyosha teases himself with the press a cool finger against his entrance, and his gasps the only sound other than the crackling of the fire as pushes inside of himself. He wishes he could see Arrell's face, but he can hear the creaking of the wooden chair, and thinks he might actually have heard something fall off the desk and break.

_I'll remember throughout my final years:_  
_The delicate taste of you, my dear._

The final couplet comes out in woosh of breath, right before Alyosha lets the book slide to the floor, keening against the back of his hand, but he doesn't let himself come. His chest heaves as he brings his hand away from his fully erect cock, dragging it up his nightgown to rest on his stomach.

Alyosha can practically taste the silence as it hangs in the air of the study, prolonged and full. It's similar to how he imagines Arrell can taste the blood running through Alyosha's veins even before he takes a bite to devour what lies underneath. Arrell's never spoken about what it's like to thirst, but Alyosha wonders what that pressing lull to feed would feel like, as completely clouds the senses - whether it's more of a headache, or an enticing allure. Alyosha knows he's dancing a little close to the edge of Arrell's patience, that Arrell must know he's teasing him, but Alyosha feels just as dedicated to the task of drawing Arrell away from his work as he does the study of his religious texts.

Yet, as Alyosha takes a deep breath, he realizes Arrell has picked his pen back up and begun to write again. He frowns and forces himself to ignore his erection as he stands.

Arrell gives the outward impression of control as Alyosha studies his back, but when comes to stand behind the scholar at his desk, Alyosha can see that Arrell's hands are shaking, his penmanship unsteady. Alyosha can see how pale he is, even in the candlelight, and as he places a hand on Arrell's shoulder, Arrell flinches, blotting ink on the parchment.

"Oh dear," Alyosha says, keeping his tone light. "You'll have to redo that line." He slides his hand closer to Arrell's neck.

"Alyosha..." Arrell all but growls, yet there's no strength behind his warning.

Alyosha circles around the chair, until he's facing Arrell and can look into the man's eyes. They're so impossibly dark, in the way that sends a thrill through Alyosha, that makes him shiver at the apparent signs of thirst, that Arrell wants him. Alyosha licks his lips and Arrell's gaze follows the path of his tongue intently.

"What did you think of the poem, Tutor?" Alyosha asks. He pulls the pen out of Arrell's hand and knows he's won when Arrell doesn't resist, instead letting Alyosha slide into Arrell's lap. Alyosha whines again as his cock brushes against Arrell's stomach, and Arrell's eyes shutter closed briefly, before they snap back open to glare at the exarch.

"Alyosha, you-"

"Don't speak," Alyosha interrupts. He braces himself by placing his hands on either side of Arrell, against the back of the chair. His thighs tremble as he tries to not cry from the tease of pressure on his cock as Arrell shifts to accommodate the man in his lap.

"You need to feed, Tutor," Alyosha says quietly, looking deep into Arrell's eyes. "I'm here."

Arrell gulps and lets his head fall forward, brushing his nose against the hollow of Alyosha's neck. Alyosha sighs, tilting his head back to allow better access. Arrell presses his hands against the small of Alyosha's back, holding him close.

"Alyosha," Arrell murmurs, and oh, Alyosha shakes at how wrecked his voice sounds, "Are you-"

"Yes," Alyosha exhales, rocking his hips, and Arrell growls again. "I'll heal, I always do. Don't worry."

Arrell hesitates, before abruptly pulling Alyosha down into a kiss. It surprises him, the action almost tender, if not for the undercurrent of urgency on Arrell's tongue. Alyosha threads his fingers through Arrell's hair, kissing back with intent.

Soon, Alyosha can feel Arrell's fangs brushing lightly against his lips. He pulls away to look at Alyosha once more, the hunger palpable in his eyes.

"Arrell," Alyosha begins, his erection painful as tries not to rut against the man beneath him. "Please."

Arrell exhales and bows his head - almost as if in prayer. He kisses a line down Alyosha's neck, teeth gently scraping against the skin but not breaking the surface. Alyosha's eyes flutter closed, anticipating.

Arrell is always neat with the first bite, never messy, almost polite. Yet, Alyosha still cries out when teeth finally puncture his skin, at spot right below his collarbone, where his shirts will conceal the mark. Arrell holds him tight, but Alyosha can feel his hands shaking once again as he sucks and licks the blood off of Alyosha's chest.

Alyosha has never told Arrell this, but feels immensely electrified when Arrell drains him of life. Perhaps its the way his pulses picks up in speed, blood racing to meet Arrell's tongue, or the way Arrell holds him so tight and close, like he wouldn't let go even if the world was ending.

Arrell bites a pattern across his skin, careful not to go too deep in any one area so as to make it difficult for Alyosha to heal. Alyosha's concentration slips, but he manages to heal his skin in the wake of Arrell's mouth, gasping silent prayers into the warm study air.

There are tears in Alyosha's eyes when Arrell finally pulls away, but as Arrell opens his mouth to speak, Alyosha surges forward for another kiss. He can taste his own blood in Arrell's mouth, as it smears across his lips, slick and metallic. Without warning, Arrell bites down on Alyosha's bottom lip, and Alyosha moans as blood spills into both of their mouths.

They kiss until Alyosha finally heals his lips, praying against Arrell's mouth. Yet he feels raw and tender, his cock leaking against Arrell's stomach. Alyosha shudders, tightening his grip in Arrell's hair as he shifts his weight. Arrell groans.

"Alyosha," says Arrell, voice reverent. "You taste-" He cuts himself off, burying his face in the cook of Alyosha's neck.

"You taste divine," he mumbles.

"T-tutor, I need," Alyosha stutters out. He feels lightheaded, as if he were drunk on the very blood that trickles from the corner of his mouth. As if Arrell can read Alyosha's mind, he brings one of his hands down to Alyosha's thigh, fingers gripping hard.

"What do you need, Pupil?" Arrell asks, the smirk back in his voice along with the color in his cheeks. His eyes are glazed over and he licks his lips, satiated.

"Touch me," Alyosha moans, twisting his hands so hard that it would hurt anyone but Arrell. "Please, touch me."

Arrell brings a hand to Alyosha face, presses his thumb against Alyosha's lip, pulling it down and smearing the blood still there. Alyosha takes Arrell's fingers into his mouth quickly, greedily, sucking on them, swirling his tongue over the callouses until Arrell's eyelids droop low in the light of the flickering candle.

As Arrell moves to pull back his hand, something compels Alyosha to quickly bite down on his tutor's fingertips before they can escape. Alyosha doesn't have the energy to actually draw blood, but it's enough pressure to cause Arrell to inhale sharply, his eyes flashing wide, pupils blown.

"Hold on to me," Arrell says, voice rumbling in his chest as he drops his hands down to Alyosha's crotch, placing one loose around the base of Alyosha's cock, the other rubbing at the skin around his entrance.

Alyosha sobs, leaning forward and dropping his sweat-drenched forehead to Arrell's shoulder, but he maintains his grip on Arrell's neck.

Arrell strokes Alyosha slowly, softly, as he pushes a finger inside of the exarch. Alyosha shivers - no matter how many times he's entered himself, the feeling doesn't compare to when Arrell is the one to open him wide. Arrell's hands are larger, more experienced, but still have the capability to be incredibly caring in moments like these.

But now, Alyosha urgently whispers nonsense into Arrell's neck as Arrell brings him back to the edge. He feels Arrell shifting, moving Alyosha into a position where Arrell can see his face as he presses a second finger deep inside of his pupil.

Alyosha's mouth has fallen open as he takes in gulps of air. Arrell kisses along his jaw, before biting down hard enough to draw blood as he hooks his fingers against Alyosha's prostrate.

Alyosha shouts as he comes across the hand that is gripping his cock, shaking and clutching Arrell close. He feels his blood flowing out of his neck, into Arrell's mouth, as Arrell's teeth latch on deep - too deep for Alyosha to heal, and even through his bliss he realizes with a tremor that it will certainly leave a mark.

Arrell holds him there, sucking hard, until Alyosha is no longer shaking, boneless instead. He pulls away with one last swipe of his tongue across the wound, with a satisfied expression on his face that makes Alyosha hum in response.

Alyosha takes a moment to regain himself, praying into the night, and Arrell is patient, but eyes the mess of notes on his desk, the remnants of an ink jar shattered on the floor.

"You should be in bed," Arrell says, his voice slipping back into the tone he takes during lectures. Alyosha presses his fingers to the base of Arrell's skull, massaging slowly until Arrell sighs. There's still blood on Arrell's lips, and as Alyosha licks his own lips clean, he smiles.

"Join me, please, Tutor?" he asks. Arrell huffs, but it's a noise of acquiescence. He stands, holding Alyosha by his thighs, and walks the two of them toward the door of the study.

"Besides," Alyosha is still smiling. "This house is so cold, I'll need something to keep me warm."

Arrell lights the candelabras as they walk down the hall with a flick of his wrist. In his bedroom, the fireplace is already lit.

"Did you drink enough?" Alyosha asks as Arrell sets him down on the bed.

"For now," Arrell responds, gathering up a few books and setting them on the small table next to the bed. "Sleep, Alyosha, you need to recover your strength."

Alyosha grumbles as he slips under the cold sheets that turn magically warm underneath his palms.

"Well," he says, as he curls up next to Arrell's side. Arrell opens a large, dusty tome. "If you need more, I'm here."

As he falls asleep, Alyosha thinks he hears a soft "thank you" drift from Arrell's lips into the light of the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Who knew all those bad sonnets i wrote in 9th grade English were just training for the future imitation of a god? My apologies, Tristero, I'm sure you were much more subtle.


End file.
